


Something Special

by RightNow2808



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Hate Sex, Infidelity, Light Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Rivalry, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 21:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17170133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RightNow2808/pseuds/RightNow2808
Summary: The story of hate turning into love and everything that goes with it.





	Something Special

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this since Roger first took the number one in February and then continued it through the whole year, which makes it really special for me and I really hope that you will like it.  
> Djokovic sort of crossed my plans, but that's fine I guess :P  
> Enjoy :)

**FEBRUARY 2018 (Roger: Feb 19 – Apr 2)**

Rafa kept saying his number one ranking didn't matter to him. In comparison to his health, happiness and passion for the game, the rankings were nothing. But there was still a bit of frustration. He was injured. He couldn’t do anything to defend his number one ranking. He lost points at the AO. What happened to him was not fair, but there was nobody to blame but his own body.

Emotions he tried to ignore were blossoming in his chest. Anger, jealousy, compassion for Robin who threw up after the first set he even won. With a huff Rafa turned off the TV. He stood up. He hissed in pain. It still hurt.

He couldn’t watch Roger’s celebration. He tried not to care, but he did, and he hated the thought of not being able to control his emotions. What hurt was that Roger explicitly said that he was here for the number one. But that shouldn’t have surprised or hurt Rafa. Roger was his rival. The point of that was wanting to be better than your opponents and Roger had taken his chance. Rafa tried not to see it as a betrayal.

“What’s wrong?” María asked when he entered their bedroom. There must have been a sour expression on his face. He felt the corners of his lips pull down.

“Nothing,” he replied curtly. He knew he was being snappy without a reason and that Maria didn’t deserve it. He watched her roll her eyes and return her attention to the book she was reading. They had been having problems lately. Rafa didn’t know why.

He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. When he looked up into the mirror his eyes seemed tired and sad. The muscle in his hip was pulsing in time with his heart beat, sending small sparks of pain up into his brain. He tried to wash the tiredness away with some cold water, but it didn’t work.

After scrubbing at the skin of his cheeks until it was sore, he finally gave up and gently wiped his face off with a towel. He went to bed, trying to ignore the fact that he was no longer the number one and that he couldn’t do anything to gain it back. Not for some time.

*

 

**MARCH 2018 (Rafa: Apr 2 – May 14)**

Rafa sat down on the couch, turning on the TV. He was in a conflict with tennis. Two injuries of the same muscle in a row took a toll on his confidence. The usual questions rose up in his head again. Every time he stepped on court he wondered if his hip will pang in pain again. He knew he should get this out of his head, but it was hard to. He was afraid of the pain.

He knew that by missing that many tournaments, not finishing any since Shanghai, it would be difficult to gain the number one ranking again. And he was already fine with it. He had to clear his mind, get it across that it was important to focus on his health and fitness instead of pondering on the rankings. He now managed to do so. He was relaxed. He trained every day, working a little bit more each day, trying to get back on track.

He was working on getting rid of his fears, but it was hard. In the period of time from AO to Acapulco they did everything right and the injury still recurred. One hard step was too much. He was worried he won’t get rid of it in time for the clay. That would mean poor confidence and poor confidence would mean less possibilities to win.

He tried to ignore the negative thoughts, he focused on the match that was starting on the TV. He loved tennis. There were sometimes dark thoughts present. Tennis destroyed him. It destroyed his body. Yet Rafa still loved it more than anything. He would always do anything he could to get back on the tour. He wasn’t ready to stop.

When he couldn’t play tennis he watched it, and that had always been that way. Since he was a little kid. And even now he kept watching every interesting match that he could. He wasn’t expecting the match between Roger and Kokkinakis to be interesting. He expected something like 6-2, 6-4. He didn’t know Thanasi very well. They had talked a few times. Thanasi had told him about his many injuries, about how he was already thinking about retiring.

Rafa had told him to be patient, to take care of himself, not to give up. It seems that his words were heeded. The first set was exactly what Rafa expected. Roger’s form was amazing. But still, there was something about Roger. When Roger lost he usually needed some time to get himself together. The period of time between the Miami final and the second round of Indian Wells simply wasn’t enough.

Roger lost. Rafa was surprised. He watched Kokkinakis celebrate on court, his face a mix of happiness, relief, thankfulness. Rafa understood just how amazing he must be feeling. But he also knew how Roger was feeling. The Swiss kept the expression on his face completely neutral, but Rafa knew what was hiding underneath. Anger, disappointment, confusion, exhaustion.

Having already got over the loss of the number one ranking, Rafa didn’t keep up with the ATP rankings. Which meant he didn’t know he would become the new number one the Monday after the tournament, until Mary told him.

“What?” he asked. He was a bit confused. He knew he would become the number one if Roger didn’t manage to get to the semi-final in Indian Wells, but he did and from then on Rafa didn’t bother with the maths. He didn’t know it was still possible. Especially because he also lost 600 points on the tournament, having played in the last year’s final.

“Yup,” Maria replied. “You should really start following the news a bit more closely.”

Rafa tried not to feel too happy about it. He knew he would only get crushed when he lost the ranking again. Because with missing so many tournaments there was no way he could keep it for very long. He also tried not to feel guilty. Roger deserved it more than he did. He’d been working hard for the whole 2017 and even now. He deserved to keep it for more than a month.

Rafa wondered if he should thank Thanasi. Would that be rude?

*

 

**MAY 2018 (Roger: May 14 – May 21)**

Rafa… broke. He was tired, not just physically, but emotionally too. He and María had been fighting about stupid stuff again. Rafa tried to keep his personal matters off the court, but they hadn’t finished the fight and the whole time during the match Rafa truly tried to keep the thoughts away, but he couldn’t help wondering where the argument had left them.

He lost. It wasn’t even surprising. At the start of the clay season, he knew that the only way to keep the ranking was to defend every single point he had won on clay. Which meant winning every tournament except Rome. He did perfect in Monte Carlo. First problems started showing in Barcelona, but he managed to stay physically and mentally stable and he fought his way through without losing a set.

He tried not to think about that. He tried not to think about his consecutive matches, his consecutive sets, his record on clay, but with every press question about it, it got harder to keep his wandering thoughts in check.

He was disappointed, but he won’t let himself be crushed by it. It happened. They’ll go over his mistakes. He’ll learn from the mistakes and forget the loss. He will go on. There were stinging tears in his eyes later while he was showering, but he didn’t let them fall. He allowed himself to be sad for exactly ten minutes while he showered. Then he moved on.

The number one ranking didn’t matter to him. Not as much as being happy and healthy. But he still promised himself he would do everything to get it back in Rome.

**Hey, Rafa, everything okay?**

He frowned at the message on his phone. It was from Roger. There was a part of him telling himself that Roger was just trying to be nice. He did lose a bit uncharacteristically out there and maybe people worried that there was something physical. But there was this other part that knew how nice Roger must be feeling at getting the number one back and he didn’t text him back.

 

* **(Rafa: May 21 – Jun 18)**

Rafa knew how close he was to losing. The rain break gave him time to clear his head, to loosen the pressure that was gathering within him. If the rain hadn’t started, he would have lost the match. Sascha was too good and there was nothing but respect for him.

But he was still glad he won. Not because of the number one ranking, but because of his confidence, because he thought he was too tired to continue in the same manner, but he was still here and he was still winning. It was a confirmation he needed. He hugged the trophy close. He drank champagne. He enjoyed in the moment of victory, of peace, of happiness, before he would have to start thinking about moving on, about Roland Garros.

If he didn’t want to start taking his wins for granted, he had to forget his victories just as quickly as he had to forget his losses. It was the only way not to get lost in emotions and pressure and to keep going.

*

Rafa had no idea Roger was in Rome. He tried to keep his confusion at bay when he saw him sitting on the couch in the hotel’s main hall. When Roger looked up, smiled and walked towards him, Rafa tried to hide his suspicion. Roger had just lost the number one ranking to him, why was he smiling like that?

“Congratulations, Rafa,” Roger said and gave him a one-armed hug. Rafa returned the hug, trying to keep his left eyebrow from jumping up.

“Thank you,” he replied. “I didn’t know you are here.”

Roger chuckled, suddenly seeming awkward and sheepish. Rafa stepped back from their awkward hug and smiled nervously. He didn’t know why his body was telling him to be cautious.

“Um, well, yes. I’m just… you know, here to see some good tennis. What a shame that the weather was this bad, hm?”

Rafa didn’t know what shame that was. A shame that his top spin balls didn’t jump as high as usual? Or a shame that the match was interrupted after basically everything was in Sascha’s hands? Rafa had a feeling that it was the latter. He narrowed his eyes on Roger before pushing past him.

“What a shame,” he agreed, before walking to the elevators. He pressed the button, but Roger was following him. He was now leaning against the wall on Rafa’s left.

“I mean… I should probably thank you for generously giving me a week, right?”

Rafa sighed. His shoulders were hurting from holding his tennis bag and the Nike bag and he didn’t want the trip to his room taking even longer than it did.

“I don’t know what you talk about,” is what he replied, watching the numbers above the elevator change from 12 to 11 and then to 10 slowly. He prayed for the elevator to go faster, but the time just didn’t pass in his moments of desperation.

“I think you do,” Roger replied. Rafa gave him a cautious glare before immediately turned back to the screen above the elevator. He was set on keeping his eyes there no matter what. “Is it fun to have the draw arranged for a challenger player? Rafa?”

Rafa was really, honestly set on keeping his eyes up and his mouth closed. But he couldn’t let a statement like that go unanswered. It reminded him too much of the doping accusations which he hated more than anything in the field of his job. More than any knee pain, more than any sports massage, more than any injury. He couldn’t handle the thought of people believing he didn’t deserve this.

And now Roger, his biggest rival, one of his very good friends did that. He tried to keep his mouth from falling open when he looked back at Roger. He couldn’t believe his ears. He couldn’t believe Roger was capable of saying something like that. He would not start a fight over it, though. It’s not who he was.

“I am tired, Roger. I am going back to Mallorca early tomorrow. I suggest you think about what you say and come back to me with this sometimes later. And if you have problem with the draw, talk with the tournament organisers. Leave me out of this.”

His voice was harsh and cold and so foreign to Rafa that he managed to surprise himself. He felt himself flush and he looked away from Roger’s unreadable face. Thankfully the elevator door opened in the moment and he made a big step to get away. If Roger followed him, he would push him out. Roger’s words hurt, but they didn’t leave an imprint on his confidence or victory. No, they woke something inside him up. A competition. Roger wouldn’t get his number one back.

*

 

**JUNE 2018 (Roger: Jun 18 – Jun 25)**

He knew that the main idea of Roger playing Stuttgart was to prepare for Wimbledon. But he also knew that Roger would get enough preparation by playing Halle. But that would mean no number one for him, even if he managed to win both, Wimbledon and Halle. So, Stuttgart was easy. It was a 250 event and Roger had a more or less clear way to the final, where he gained his number one ranking back.

Rafa watched the semi-final match with clenched teeth. Roger was playing great, of that there was no doubt, there were some mistakes and some slip-ups, but Roger was great. Rafa couldn’t deny that no matter how pissed off it was. He glared at the screen in hopes of sending it through to Roger.

He knew Carlos and Toni would strangle him if they knew what kind of thoughts were rushing through his mind. Rafa was ready to heedlessly aim into any match. And it wasn’t so much about getting the number one back. It was about beating Roger, showing him that he was better than him.

This had happened many times throughout his career. The bare need to show someone he was better than them. Usually it was mostly to convince _himself_ and his team that he was able, that he was good, that he was going on, but now it wasn’t about himself anymore, it was about Roger. He wanted to show _Roger_ that he was better, and he was set on getting to the Wimbledon final, no matter how dangerous it was to think like that.

*

Somehow the happiness of getting back to the number 1 wasn’t so sweet. He didn’t earn it. Roger fucked up. He honestly didn’t know what to expect when he settled down to watch the Halle final. Roger was being strange this year. Losing so many sets, and even having to defend match points wasn’t like him. Not on grass. That’s why he didn’t completely rule out the possibility of Borna beating Roger. He just didn’t quite believe it would happen.

Borna saved two set points in the tie break of the first set. And then he managed to get the set on the first of his own. Unsurprisingly enough Roger got the second set. By then Rafa was almost convinced that the first set was a mere warm-up for Roger. The Swiss usually did that thing where he simply raised his level of tennis after the first set and completely destroyed the opponent.

Rafa couldn’t believe Borna managed not to get just one, but two breaks in the third and decisive set. He barely kept his jaw from falling down. Roger’s serve was amazing, and a boy just managed to break it. Twice.

Rafa hated that he actually hoped Roger would lose. He hated how his hands tightened on the pillow in his lap, how he clenched his teeth, how he cheered for Borna. He tried to tell himself it was because he supported Borna as a young and promising player, but he knew what it was. He wanted that number one back. He got it.

**Everything okay?**

He texted Roger after the final. He didn’t expect a response and he didn’t get any. He texted Borna too.

*

 

**JULY 2018 (Rafa: Jun 25 – Nov 5)**

It was the first time they met after their awkward and rude encounter in Rome. Rafa was still mad about Roger’s words, but he was determined not to let it show when he spoke to him. They met on the practice courts, walking past each other.

“Hola, Roger,” he said and flashed him a bright smile. It was easy. He was the number one. He had what he wanted. Roger didn’t seem too happy about it. Something flashed in his eyes, but it disappeared quickly. Rafa’s grin spread.

“Hi, Rafa,” Roger replied. His voice was quiet and poisonous.

There was this thing about Roger. He had always made Rafa feel a little funny in a weird way Rafa himself couldn’t explain. But it made him take a cautious step back. The grin disappeared from his face and there was suddenly so much tension around them that you could cut it with a knife.

“Um, I see you around, no?” Rafa stuttered and quickly pushed past him. He felt Roger’s eyes burning into his back long after his wildly beating heart stopped trying to get out of his chest.

After that Rafa tried to stay away from Roger. And it worked for some time. The next time they met was in the locker room. Rafa just finished his first-round match, Roger was getting ready for practice. Rafa’s small smile died when he saw Roger sitting close to his locker. It was a good day. He was starting to feel his feet on grass, he was adjusting his shots quite well and he managed to win. He felt good and nothing was hurting. He didn’t want Roger to spoil that.

He bit his lip. He couldn’t just ignore him though, could he? He could pretend he doesn’t see him. He turned around, put his bag on the bench and pretended to look for something. He knew he should slowly get in the shower, otherwise he would risk getting a cold, but Roger was there and there was no way he would get naked in front of somebody he accused him of not deserving his victory. He knew he was thinking like a child but in that moment, he couldn’t care less.

“Oh, hello, Rafa! I didn’t even see you there.”

Rafa closed his eyes, tried to keep a sigh in. He slowly turned around with his bottom lip tightly squeezed in between his teeth, tightly holding on to his towel for protection. When he realised that must have looked a bit weird, he put it back on the bench and felt himself flush under Roger’s judging gaze.

“Oh, hola,” he finally forced himself to speak, his tongue getting completely tangled up in his words. “I… So sorry, no? I distracted.”

He used to know the verb to be. What the hell was Roger doing to him?

“Hm,” Roger agreed. Rafa flushed even further and crossed his arms in front of his chest, because he didn’t know where to put them. He hoped it look at least a little bit threatening, but he knew the chances of that were very slim with him being all flushed, sweaty and squirmy and to top it, without a speaking ability. He nibbled on his lip until he tasted blood. Then he let it go. It was stinging in pain. “So… I saw you won.”

“Sí… I win,” Rafa agreed, nervously squeezing his hands into fists. Where had all of his confidence disappeared to? Roger was doing something to him with his dark eyes and intimidating form. They were of the same height but under the hard gaze Rafa felt much, much smaller. He had to get out of there.

He couldn’t. Roger had moved closer to him. Rafa didn’t even see him walking. He pressed himself back against the locker, felt the wood against his back and was all too aware of his heart. He was also starting to sweat again, cold little droplets running down the side of his neck. He was afraid, he realised suddenly.

Roger’s hand came up and Rafa flinched when it touched his cheek. But the touch was surprisingly gentle. The rough fingertips of Roger’s hand caressed his cheeks slowly and Rafa let out a shuddering breath. As quickly as the touch came, it disappeared too and when Roger turned away Rafa could finally breathe normally again. What the fuck was that?

*

Roger just knew he had to win Wimbledon. If he didn’t, Rafa would run so far away he would never be able to catch him again. The first thought about that was completely innocent, a thought barely present in the back of his mind.

But then it started pressing on him from all directions, a constant nagging about how he had to win Wimbledon. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for losing the Halle final. Something unexpected came over him in the last set and he was just _blocked_. No matter how hard he tried, the ball always flew out, or into the net. Borna kept saving everything he sent at him, and his serve just didn’t work anymore.

His frustration finished the match with a totally humiliating score. He felt even more stupid when Borna lost to fucking Medvedev in the fucking first round of Wimbledon. It was important to push the defeats away, but he couldn’t do it completely. It seemed as if a curse of defending titles had caught him. He only defended one title this year and even that was probably only because Rafa got injured in Australia. He was so close to defending his Indian Well title, for fuck’s sake, he even had a match point. Dwelling too long on that defeat was what caused the early loss in Miami. And the losses just kept haunting him.

He became a winner of two ATP 250 titles, but everything else was just slipping from his hands, including the number one position. He worked hard all his life, it would be fair to get to the top again, but of course someone had to be there to ruin everything for him.

He watched Rafa’s matches during the first three rounds. He knew that if Rafa failed to get into the fourth round, the number one would be his again. But the Spaniard was just on the roll. He didn’t even lose a set. He barely even lost a service game. Rafael was clearly better at defending titles than he was. He managed to defend everything. Fucking everything. If Roger wasn’t so angry, he’d be impressed.

The number one would have to wait then. He just had to make sure he won.

Rafa kept avoiding him. Roger made a bad plan of trying to intimidate the younger man, which seemed to work at first, but Rafa quickly realised what was going on. He made sure to book practice courts at other times than Roger did, but that was not all. His team was always around him and Roger couldn’t get him alone anymore. Rafa kept sending him glares, which were half angry, half confused and kept suspiciously tearing at Roger’s heart.

They used to be friends. Now they were rivals to the core.

*

Rafa didn’t find out until he walked off the court. His legs felt like pudding, his arms were hurting, and he felt like tiredness was just dragging him down. He was happy, of course he was, but all he wanted now was a massage, an ice bath, some light dinner and then his comfortable bed.

He had to look twice, squint his eyes a little bit, blink a few times in case he was seeing things, but the score on the board remained the same. It immediately sent a new wave of energy into his body. He gasped.

Roger lost? Roger actually lost Wimbledon? What was happening? His first instinct was to be happy. His biggest rival was out of the way. But then he started thinking. Why on earth had Roger lost a match he was leading two sets to love? Was he injured? Was he okay?

The thoughts shattered quickly. Roger had accused him of not deserving his title. Why would he care about Roger’s uncharacteristical loss? He blinked once more, before he went to the locker room. He was still sweating.

What he didn’t expect was to see Roger there. Roger’s match had finished hours ago, why was he still here?

“Oh, hey, Rafa, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“What, really?” Rafa said before he could stop himself. Roger gave him a small twisted smile but Rafa could see Roger’s anger, disappointment and sadness right through it. He felt a surge of pity which he immediately tried to shrug off. This was his potential opponent, his rival.

“Yeah. So, are you happy now?”

“Um… Very happy with my win, sí,” he answered carefully.

“Oh, really? How happy are you with my loss then?”

Rafa didn’t know if he should act surprised or try to reason with Roger that his loss had nothing to do with his happiness. But he was taking to long to decide and after a few seconds he wasn’t able to play surprised anymore.

“I’m not happy about your loss, Roger. Sorry you lose.”

“Yeah, for sure. Like it wasn’t your plan all along to get me out of your way.”

Rafa scoffed, put his bags down on the bench and put his hands on his hips. There he was, being accused of being unfair all over again. Why was he allowing this to happen?

“Only plan I have to get you out of my way is beat you in final. You did this all yourself. Anderson was better.”

“No, no, he wasn’t!” Roger angered. Rafa turned away from him, started rummaging through his Nike bag to find his toiletry bag. He had to shower, before he caught a cold from the cold sweat sticking to his skin. “He held on, that was all, and I lost my focus, he would never win otherwise.”

Rafa scoffed again. Roger was acting like a little child and it was getting on his nerves.

“No. He played better. You lost your focus. You think the match is yours after two sets. He fought until the end. He won. Stop being a child and accept,” he hissed. He took off his sweatshirt, putting it on top of his racket bag. He almost lost his balance when a body slammed into his. “What is wrong with you?” he yelled, never getting to finish his sentence before Roger’s hand covered his mouth.

He considered biting it, but the look in Roger’s eyes forced him to go completely still, caged in between the wooden lockers and Roger’s body. He felt like he’d been in this position before. This time he didn’t wait like the other time. He pushed Roger away, feeling anger licking up at his insides. He glared at him.

“Stop doing that,” he growled, before he grabbed two towels and his toiletry bag. Roger stared at him in surprise for a few seconds, but much to Rafa’s annoyance followed him towards the showers. When Roger didn’t stop following him right up until Rafa stopped in front of the last cubicle on the right, he turned around and looked straight into Roger’s eyes.

“Okay, what you want?” he asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Everything!” Roger yelled. Rafa wondered how this was gonna go, when Juan came to shower too. He went to talk to his team right after the match, but he would eventually have to come in the locker room, right in the middle of Roger’s mental break down. “I want my fucking number one, do you have any idea how far ahead you’re gonna be now? And I want to defend one fucking title this year, but it doesn’t even matter, let’s wait some more and there will be no more titles for me to defend. So, what, should I just start going to the Challenger events, is that where I’m going to end?!”

Rafa stared at him impassively.

“If you act this way, that is exactly where you gonna end.”

“How am I supposed to act?! I did everything Rafa, all the trainings, I never broke my diet, I kept up with all the physio massages, I-“

“This is something you should be used to. You can’t feel like you suffer doing this. You do all that and then you do even more and more and when you do more, you are in good way to achieve some things. You can’t- you… I don’t know, you should understand this, if you-“

“And I want you.”

“You can’t- wait, what?”

“It’s so frustrating, because you have everything, and I can’t… I just want…”

Rafa narrowed his eyes on him. “You clear your head, Roger. You can’t demand number one, you earn it. I have to shower.”

Roger was looking at him with big vulnerable eyes, but Rafa chose to turn away. He walked into the cubicle, closed the door behind him, but something in him made him neglect the lock. He left the door unlocked and he didn’t know why himself.

He sighed. He put the toiletry bag on the shelf and got undressed.

He knew he would probably regret leaving the door unlocked. He subconsciously knew it from the beginning. But he didn’t actually think Roger would walk just right in.

“You have problems,” he accused Roger immediately and tried to grab a towel to cover his naked body. But he couldn’t reach it without moving and Roger’s stare pinned him right in his place. “Get out.”

Roger ignored him completely, but he made a step further and then another one and another one and then Rafa was pinned against the wall for the second time by the same person. He was really starting to hate it. Only now he was naked, and Roger was looking at his body in a way that made him shiver. He couldn’t put a finger on what it was, but Roger’s eyes were darker than he’d ever seen them before. His whole body shuddered without his permission.

Roger pinned his wrists to the wall and he froze, not even thinking about getting away anymore. His lips parted in a gasp and he silently watched Roger, waiting for something. He didn’t know if Roger was going to slap him, hurt him, punch him, but somehow, he doubted that. He also realised that what was cursing through his veins wasn’t fear but excitement. His body wanted something and yet he didn’t know what it was.

Roger seemed almost as affected as he was. Rafa could see his bottom lip trembling and he could barely breathe through the thick tension. Roger was the first one to react, but he didn’t move away like Rafa hoped he would. No, he leaned in closer and before Rafa quite realised what was happening, Roger’s lips pressed against his own.

He gasped, tried to breathe in. His first instinct was to push Roger away. But the Swiss still had his wrists pinned and his body was pressed right against his own. He had nowhere to go. He didn’t turn his head away though. He kissed him back, completely shocked by his own reaction, but he couldn’t deny that he liked it.

Roger finally released his wrists, but even then, Rafa didn’t push him away. His fingers found their way into Roger’s hair, he twisted and pulled and got incredible satisfaction from the way Roger moaned into his mouth. One of Roger’s hands encircled his waist, the other slipped lower.

The first touch to his growing cock was what finally snapped Rafa out of it. This isn’t right, he screamed to himself, but it felt too good. But still, what Rafa had mastered in his life was self-control. With the last bit of strength he possessed, he pushed Roger away.

“No, no, Roger, we can’t… I have- Oh, God, Mary.”

“Don’t say her name,” Roger growled and kissed him again. He pushed his tongue into Rafa’s mouth and Rafa turned into a putty in his hands. He moaned, went completely lax and when Roger’s hand touched him the second time, it was impossible to resist.

He whimpered into Roger’s mouth, wrestled with himself in his mind, but he couldn’t push Roger away the second time. He found himself nodding, desperate to obey.

Roger’s hand was tight on him, rough and way too good. Rafa wouldn’t last long, not with the adrenaline from the match still cursing through his veins. He gripped Roger’s hair even more tightly, pulled harder, looking to hurt him like Roger had hurt Rafa and at the same time still tried to push his hips up to get more.

This was nothing like him. This wasn’t who he was. He never did that, made out with guys in shower cubicles, cheating on his girlfriend, for fuck’s sake. He tried to shake the thought away, moaned louder, said Roger’s name like a prayer and then came all over Roger’s fist. He yelled into Roger’s mouth and hoped nobody was in the locker room to hear them. He panted harshly, parted their lips and threw his head back against the wall. He couldn’t believe what had just happened.

He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to look Roger in the eyes again.

*

It wasn’t even weird that he lost his match against Djokovic. His thoughts were all over the place. And he couldn’t even get focused enough to do it the second chance he got. He didn’t play bad. But losing all of the chances he got to win was not acceptable. His mind betrayed him this time. And without denying, Djokovic played better.

Rafa was overall happy to have got so far. A semi-final at Wimbledon was a good accomplishment. But having got so far and with Roger out he believed this could be his chance. He truly believed, maybe even a little bit too much.

But he still got what he wanted. He was so far ahead of Roger, that Roger would have to work really hard to get the number one back. That was what he wanted, right?

And he still couldn’t explain why he wanted to see Roger again, why he couldn’t get the shower cubicle out of his head, why he kept feeling Roger’s hands on his body.

*

 

**AUGUST 2018**

Rafa arrived in Toronto. He was exhausted. He tried to get as much of his break as he possibly could, but constant fights with his girlfriend tired him out. For the first time in very long, he just wanted to lie down and stare at the ceiling. It was hard to get out of his hotel bed and get to practice. It was hard to ignore the fact that there was something missing.

He missed the thrill of seeing Roger around in his hotel, in the locker room, on the practice courts. He knew that no matter how hard he looked, he wouldn’t see Roger. Because Roger wasn’t here.

Rafa tried to understand his own mind, he really did, but the thoughts flying through his head made him beyond confused. Roger not being here made this his chance. He knew that there were difficult opponents in his way. Marin in the quarters, Isner in the semis, and there was a possibility he would face Djokovic in the final. He wasn’t ready for another loss against him.

He pulled himself out of this mindset. Think about your first match, he told himself. And get Roger the fuck out of your head. He sighed, rolled around and finally stood up. It was time for practice.

*

Winning was refreshing. Proving something to himself too. He didn’t need Roger. Not in any way. He knew well enough that the man was just messing with his head. And winning now, overcoming his mental barricades meant even more to Rafa than just simply winning. He had the trophy in his hands. A trophy he won on a hard court. A trophy he won in Toronto where he hadn’t been for eight years because of constant injuries and doubts. And now he held the beautiful white and golden trophy in his hands, smiling and so happy, because he just proved something to himself.

He doesn’t need Roger.

He talked with his team after everything was done. After the press, the endless photos, all the thanking he had to make. They sat down in the locker room. Titín worked on his body and they talked.

Rafa was both happy and disappointed with his decision to withdraw from Cincinnati. Happy because he was tired and hurting and because he needed rest if he wanted to continue his season in this successful way. He hugged the trophy close. But there would be no Roger, he thought sadly. He shook the idea out of his mind right away, almost disgusted with himself and the thoughts running through his head.

He could go play golf to the Bahamas and forget everything about Roger. About the way he touched him. About the way he made him come. Rafa shook his head. Yeah, that’s exactly what he’s gonna do.

*

He felt the first pang of pain on the first day of practice on the Arthur Ashe stadium in New York. He ignored it, it didn’t bother his movement in any way. He could bend his knees, he could run, he could come to the net and his serve wasn’t affected. He considered telling Titín about it but thought about how much worry that would cause his family and team and decided to keep it to himself.

He didn’t see Roger until the third day of practice, when Roger’s was scheduled right after his. The knowledge of this left a big impact on his game. He was unfocused through his practice, Carlos losing his mind more than just once and Francis sending him worried glances. What he was fearing the most came when Roger arrived. The man gave him a glance that didn’t say a word, sitting down on the bench where Rafa’s bags were and just silently watched him, which bothered Rafa to no end. He’d never sent so many balls into the net in the period of five minutes before in his entire life, but he kept feeling Roger’s stare on him, hot and cold all at once, nice on the outside but Rafa had no idea what was going on in Roger’s head, and that’s what he was afraid off.

After the practice was over, he reluctantly returned to his bench. Roger stood up and Rafa tried to look everywhere but at him when Roger smiled and offered him his hand. They clasped their hands, Rafa cringing internally and then Roger pulled him close.

“Wait for the end of my practice,” he murmured into Rafa’s ear quietly. The Spaniard stiffened up, pulled away and looked at Roger, distrust clearly visible on his features.

Why would he? He thought while walking of the court, his team following him. Why would he wait for Roger? He had better stuff to do. He would go out eating with his family and then they could watch a movie or a football match, they could go out for a walk or shopping on the fifth avenue. There were a thousand things he could do, so why would he wait for Roger? And yet, from the moment Roger whispered those words into his ear, Rafa knew that he would do just that.

“You go,” he told the team, after they showered and changed. “I wanna talk to Roger. Please, take my bags, I’ll take a taxi and come later.”

They asked him if he was sure. He wasn’t, but he still nodded decisively.

“Yes, I’ll go eat to the players’ restaurant, don’t worry, and I’ll come back in time for the treatment.”

The stares he got from his team were suspicious, but they listened to him, took his bags and left him alone with his thoughts. Rafa went to get a light lunch from the restaurant, before he went back into the locker room. He spoke with some players who were just getting ready for their own practice, but the knot in his stomach never eased up and he couldn’t get more than a few words out. As the time got closer to two o’clock, the end of Roger’s practice, Rafa got more and more nervous, but he was also more than interested in what Roger had to say. Would he accuse him of not deserving his Toronto title? Rafa would probably punch him, if that was the case. His self-control was very weak when it came to Roger.

When Roger walked into the locker room, the look in his eyes told Rafa that he wasn’t expecting him to actually wait. That alone made Rafa feel stupid and weak. Roger looked around, but there were many other players still in the locker room, they were paying attention to themselves, but it was clear that there were too many for them to speak freely. Roger put his bag down on the bench, took out some towels and motioned Rafa to follow him.

Rafa wasn’t sure if he should actually go after him, but he didn’t wait here for an hour for nothing. He followed Roger’s to the showers. He felt uneasy and excited both, and he couldn’t explain why. That was partly a lie. He had already come to terms with himself that he missed the thrill of Roger being around when he was alone. A few showers were working, but when Roger grabbed Rafa by the shirt and pulled him into his cubicle, nobody was there to see.

“What do you want?” Rafa whispered. This wasn’t like Wimbledon querterfinals when the locker room was mostly empty all the time. The tournament hadn’t started yet and the place was crowded. Rafa couldn’t let himself be heard in here, especially not talking to Roger and especially not locked in a shower cubicle with him.

“I thought you missed me,” Roger smirked, took off his sweaty practice shirt and Rafa had to try really hard to look away.

“Well, you wrong,” he said immediately, keeping his eyes down on the floor. Rafa stopped counting how many times had Roger pressed him up against the wall, but this time he didn’t have one bit of energy to fight him, when Roger’s sweaty body touched his.

“I would say congratulations for Toronto,” Roger started, pressing his lips close to Rafa’s ear, his hot breath tickling the Spaniard, making him want to twist away, but it was impossible, “only, you wouldn’t win if I were there.”

Rafa glared at him, felt the insatiable urge to slap him. He felt himself still though, knowing that Roger was only doing this to piss him off and try to get a reaction out of him. Rafa wouldn’t let him.

“Fuck you,” he replied shortly, brought his hands up to push Roger away, but in a movement so fast Rafa barely saw it, Roger grabbed his wrists and pinned them against the wall.

“Oh, sweetheart, keep begging for it and I will.”

Rafa tried to fake disgust, but the reaction of his body was exactly the opposite, as usually acting without the permission of his brain. Roger’s words excited him, his heartbeat sped up and it suddenly got incredibly difficult to breath and think.

“I bet you still think about that shower every day, don’t you? Do you imagine my body beside yours every time you take a shower? Do you wish I was there to satisfy you? Because believe me, I can do it so much better than your own hand, or even that girlfriend of yours.”

That should have snapped Rafa out of it, but Roger’s voice was so low and seductive that it only drew Rafa further in, relaxing against his own will, and letting himself enjoy in the humiliating feeling of Roger’s body pressed against his.

“I thought so,” Roger smirked, leaned forward and claimed Rafa’s lips. Rafa desperately returned the kiss. Roger was right and Rafa hated the thought, but his body wanted the Swiss like it never wanted anything before. “When she touched you, did you pretend it was me?” Roger asked right against Rafa’s lips. Rafa hated him talking. He wanted – no, needed him to shut up, because his stupid voice only reminded him that what they were doing was wrong. “No, I bet you couldn’t. Her hand isn’t like mine, is it? And she’s missing an important part I think you like very much,” Roger continued when they parted for air. Rafa wanted to smash his stupid voice, but instead he brought his hands up, squeezed his shoulders and made sure to dig his nails as deep into Roger’s skin as he could.

Roger hissed. “Well, you’re a feisty little thing, hm?”

“Shut up!” Rafa finally exploded. His heart was pumping blood at full speed, his cock, trapped in his shorts and desperately hard, sought any attention it could get, and Rafa’s hips ground against Roger, finding out the Swiss was just as hard as he was. Rafa wanted to give him a rude remark, but before he could even open his mouth, Roger grabbed his hips and spun him around so quickly that Rafa had to bring his hands up to avoid crashing into the tiles with his head.

His body trembled with need now and even though he was still full of controversy, he knew something for sure. He wanted this, and he would deal with the consequences later.

Roger pressed against him from behind him and the length of his hard cock against Rafa’s ass made the Spaniard almost sob in need. No matter how composed he tried to stay, Roger just saw right through him. He kissed at Rafa’s neck, kept one hand across his waist to keep him still and teased at his neck with bites that would probably leave marks.

He reached down, hooked his fingers under the waistband of Rafa’s shorts and pushed them down. There was no time, his team would come to the locker room soon, and he had a plan to take his kids for lunch and into an amusement park later. They had to hurry. He reached for his toiletry bag, took out the lube and a condom. There was no communication in between them. There was no point.

While Roger prepared him, Rafa barely let out a noise besides a few needy sighs and a whimper at Roger’s first touch. Roger didn’t ask him if he’d done this before, he didn’t want to know. He didn’t prepare Rafa because he cared, he only did it to make it easier or at least that’s what he told himself. He held Rafa’s T-shirt out of the way so that he could watch.

They heard somebody walk into the cubicle next to him and Rafa’s whole body stiffened up. He gave Roger an alarmed glance over his shoulder, but Roger ignored him, put on a condom and pressed inside Rafa in one long thrust, covering the Spaniard’s mouth with the palm of his hand to keep him quiet.

It was rough and painful and uncaring, just like their relationship. The point was to get off, to relieve the tension that’s been gathering for the past few months. Rafa’s body was tensed, his shirt starting to get damp with the sweat, which Roger could lick right off his bare neck. He grabbed Rafa’s hair with one hand, pulled his head back to get better access to his jaw, sucking a bruise into the stubbly skin there.

Roger uncovered Rafa’s mouth to bring that same hand down in between Rafa’s legs first to touch where they were connected, before he wrapped his fingers around Rafa’s cock and stroked him in time with his thrusts. Rafa had to grit his teeth to stop himself from moaning, his hands searching for purchase on the tiled wall and finding none. When he came he bit into his own knuckles, his body convulsing in Roger’s hold and tensing up almost painfully. Tears leaked from his eyes and no matter how much he tried not to, he let out a moan that sounded way too loud to his ears. He felt Roger come just seconds later, his hand still on Rafa’s cock, tightly holding his hip with the other hand and biting into Rafa’s shoulder so hard that the blood came to the surface.

He pulled out and licked the mark on Rafa’s shoulder. When Rafa wouldn’t move he was the one to turn him around, but Rafa wouldn’t look him in the eyes. Instead he leaned close and kissed him, which was something Roger didn’t expect. Rafa only gave him a short shy look after he pulled away, put his shorts back over his ass and disappeared without another word, leaving Roger behind feeling strangely empty.

*

The pain came again during the match against Khachanov. Rafa called the physio, knowing that a little tape couldn’t help him. It lessened the oversensitivity, but it blocked some of the movements, and Rafa was honestly afraid even though he tried his hardest to conceal it. Showing his weakness to someone as young and strong as Khachanov would end him.

The want for the victory overcame the pain. With more and more adrenaline releasing into his veins he slowly forgot about the pain and managed to win the match. Thankfully enough for the next few days the knee seemed better. The anaesthetic injections did their job.

After the quarterfinals against Thiem which ended at two am, he wanted nothing but to lay down into his bed. His family left the stadium right after the match, while he had to shower and go to the press conference. When his car finally came back to the hotel it was almost four in the morning and if Rafa wasn’t mistaken, the night was already becoming a little less dark.

He walked into his suite and was immediately surprised when he found Mary in the hall and not in bed as he would expect.

“Rafa,” she whispered urgently. “Roger is here.”

At first Rafa’s tired mind didn’t even comprehend the words she was saying. Then it dawned on him.

“He’s what? Where is he?”

“I’m sorry. He was waiting in front of the door when we arrived, he looks destroyed, I couldn’t just send him away. He’s in the living room.”

“God bless your kind soul,” Rafa murmured, hating himself for using sarcasm. Mary’s kindness was one of the qualities why he fell so hard for her. But the constant fights they had, had managed to make the time they spent together painfully awkward and tension-filled. He pushed past her and went into the living room. What Mary said by Roger looking completely destroyed was confirmed by one look Rafa took at him.

Roger’s eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles under them, his nose red and runny and cheeks unusually pale. Rafa really didn’t want to deal with him right now. He had barely seen Roger since the day they had sex. Rafa still didn’t let himself believe it, he just wanted to pretend it never happened, pretend he didn’t enjoy it.

“What happened?” he asked, putting his bags down on the floor. From the corners of his eyes he saw Mary go into their bedroom.

“I lost,” Roger said, completely crushed.

“Yes,” Rafa agreed. He saw the score. He wasn’t as surprised as he was back in Wimbledon. The weather here didn’t suit Roger, the humidity and the temperature too high for him.

“And you’re still in the tournament,” Roger whispered, looking at Rafa with teary eyes. “How do you do it?”

Rafa thought about the anaesthetic injection into the knee that made him cry right before his match and smiled.

“I fighted,” he said, slowly coming forward and sitting down on the couch beside Roger.

“You’re sure you didn’t sleep with Dominic in exchange for letting you win?”

Rafa sighed. It was too late to fight, and the words didn’t even wake up the fire inside of him. He stood up and faced Roger.

“Please, go,” he said.

“No, Rafa, I’m sorry, look-“

“Roger, please, leave,” Rafa repeated. He felt like he was begging at this point. He was so tired of being accused of not deserving his victories. He saw it every time he dared open Twitter, but getting it from his biggest rival, who knew how difficult this life was, really hurt, even though Rafa tried to mask it by being angry before. This match took away every bit of anger he possessed. He just wanted to go to bed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that,” Roger stubbornly insisted. Rafa sighed, looked around, wondered if he should call Carlos. “Please, sit down, let me explain.”

Rafa didn’t expect a real apology from someone like Roger but he still listened and sat down.

“Look, I know we’ve never had so much troubles with each other before, but I’m getting so old, Rafa, and in February I’ve tasted the number one after years of not having it. And then I lost in Indian Wells and I was so mad, because I had a match point and I let it go to waste. I kept thinking about it and then I lost in Miami and I lost the number one. I was so mad with myself, but I didn’t want to blame me… so I blamed you, because you were the number one and you were injured, but I was still the second.

But then the clay court season came. And I decided not to play because of my knees and I kept hoping every single time that you would lose. I watched your matches with the same intensity as if I was your bigger fan, but I wanted just the opposite – I wanted you to lose. And you played so flawlessly I got angrier and angrier with every match you won. I started focusing on you so bad, I completely forgot about myself and I hated myself for it even more. I liked you for years and then-“

“Roger, please stop.” Rafa cut him off again, his voice almost desperate this time. His head was hurting. “You never like me, you my rival and is okay, but accusing me of cheating is ugly and I want to go to bed, so please leave, no?”

“No, Rafa, please, I need you to listen to me,” Roger said, trying to grab Rafa’s hand, but the Spaniard pulled it away.

“What you tell me right now, Roger – your problems, not mine. Hating yourself is not okay, but I can’t help you. Tell your team, get help, just leave me alone, okay?”

“Rafa, we’ve had sex,” Roger said and Rafa immediately sent him a warning glance. Roger winced and quieted his voice. “Will you tell me it meant nothing to you?”

Rafa looked him dead in the eye. “Yes. Was sex. Nothing more.”

*

 

**SEPTEMBER 2018**

Roger left for Chicago the next day. He didn’t remember feeling this horrible since his knee        injury back in 2015. Not only had he noticeably aged – he would have no problem playing in these conditions a few years ago, but he had also become a person he didn’t like.

He found himself thinking of the last year’s Laver cup. How it wouldn’t be the same without Rafa. He remembered how they really bonded during that period of time. Back then Roger was happy for Rafa, experiencing the same happiness as the Spaniard did, both of them coming back from tough injuries. Rafa had just got his number one back after quite some time and Roger was so happy for him. He felt lucky that he was at number two at that time. He was happy for the incredible season he had up to September, which then even continued. 2017 was a happy year. 2018 wasn’t a bad year either, not in terms of results. But it wasn’t quite what he wanted, and he still wasn’t happy.

The next evening, after his family had got settled into the suite in one of the most expensive hotels in Chicago, Roger turned on the expensive TV. It was time for the first semi-final match of the 2018 US Open. Roger watched as Rafa walked on the court, his face determined as usually, showing no emotions. Roger wondered if their conversation had affected Rafa at all.

He watched. Del Potro got the break first, but Rafa broke back right away, a loud ‘vamos’ leaving his mouth. Myla and Charlene came to watch, sitting down on the couch beside him. It was sometime in the fifth game, at 2 all, when Roger noticed something was wrong. He saw Rafa wince, yell something to his team, touch his right knee. A strange feeling took over Roger’s chest. Half worry, half happiness.

At four all, Del Potro got another break. He would serve for the set. Rafa was sitting at his bench. The expression on his face was nothing but determination. He went back on court, got the re-break. The set went to tie-break, Rafa double-faulted and lost the set. Sat down on his bench, took the bottle in his hand, hit his right knee with it. Roger’s heart broke a little. But still. Rafa didn’t want to listen to him. He didn’t want to help him. Rafa deserved this.

*

 

**OCTOBER 2018**

Roger fell to number three. Djokovic had wormed his way in between him and Rafa, that little bastard Roger couldn’t fucking handle. He had beat him at Cincinnati and played flawlessly at the US open. And still he hoped that he would overcome Rafa in the rankings too. Because he couldn’t handle Rafa being the best, and still not his.

Roger didn’t hear from Rafa. He sent him a text right after his retirement at the US Open, not out of worry, but out of spite. He hated himself for how he enjoyed Rafa’s pain, just because Rafa stuck a knife into his heart and twisted it so many times Roger didn’t even know what he was feeling anymore.

Two weeks after the US Open final, Roger read Rafa’s announcement that he would have to withdraw from the Asian part of the tour, because his knees needed time to heal properly. He wouldn’t be able to see Rafa in Shanghai then. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to apologize to him or do something to make Rafa hate him even more. Everything was confusing when it came to Rafa.

He went to China to play in Shanghai. Then the news from Mallorca came. He saw on twitter that somebody close to Rafa had died. His heart squeezed painfully when he thought about how much Rafa loved his family and friends. Okay, he was maybe sick when he wished Rafa bad, but this was horrible and something he would never wish upon anybody.

He picked up his phone, hovered for a few minutes over Rafa’s contact, before he finally gathered enough courage to press call. Rafa picked up on the third ring.

“Hola?” he asked, sounding sad and tired.

“Hey, Rafa, it’s me,” he said. There was silence on the other side, so Roger just bit his lip and continued. “I heard about what happened. I just wanted to say I’m sorry and that if I can help with anything, I would be happy to do so.”

There was more silence and if Roger didn’t hear Rafa breathing he would think he had hung up on him. Roger wondered if Rafa was still angry at him, or if the floods had such an impact on him.

“I will organize an exhibition. If you come would be nice,” he finally spoke, his voice cold but not unkind.

“I would love to, Rafa. See you in Paris?”

“I hope so. Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

Rafa had dismissed him quickly, but Roger had a feeling this went better than what he expected.

*

Rafa arrived in Paris feeling good and ready to compete. The first two practices went so well Rafa felt he had really good chances of keeping his number one. He knew it was dangerous to think like that, but his serve was powerful and his mind, despite everything that had happened in the past two months felt powerful and firm. The shots went exactly where he wanted them to and for a few days he thought nothing could stop him.

Except another injury. He felt the first twinges in his stomach in the practice on Monday, two days before his first match. He ignored it at first, it wasn’t strong or too painful, but it only got worse on Tuesday, when he decided to go see a doctor just in case. The doctor told him that the muscle in his abdomen was strained and that he risked a serious injury if he played. He still remembered US Open 2009. How he played with a big tear in the muscle, how much it hurt and for how long he had to stay still afterwards.

He practiced on Wednesday again, but the doctor was right. The pain got worse and when they sat down on the bench after it was over, the decision was made with barely any words. If he wanted the 2019 season to start normally, he couldn’t risk another serious injury now. He felt for the fans who would be disappointed, he was sorry he didn’t tell them earlier, but he really hoped to the last moment that he would be able to play.

He went to the press conference. He tried to stay as positive as he could, but what was biting at him the most was that the number one was gone and since he doubted he could play London, it was gone for good. Only this time he wasn’t losing it Roger, he was losing it Djokovic and he didn’t know if that made him feel worse or better. He definitely didn’t have the same connection with him as he had with Roger, but there also wasn’t that much pressure.

He knew Roger had his first match later that day, so it was at the back of his mind the whole day that the possibilities of seeing each other were quite high. He found him in the locker room. Much to his surprise, Roger was taking off his match clothes and quickly pulling on some sweatpants and a regular shirt. He turned around and noticed Rafa standing there, suddenly freezing and his mouth dropping open.

“Um, hey, Rafa,” he mumbled, ducking his eyes away.

“Hi,” Rafa said. Immediately, there was the pressure again.

“I… Wait, aren’t you supposed to have a match right now?” he remembered suddenly. He was pretty sure Rafa was scheduled before him.

“Yes,” Rafa confirmed. “I withdrew.”

“What? Why?”

“I strained my muscle,” Rafa said curtly. Roger noticed sadness and defeat in his eyes. He didn’t know if he had the right to comfort him.

“Oh,” was the only thing he managed. “I’m sorry to hear that. What about London?”

“Probably not gonna play,” Rafa replied quietly. He had left his bags in the corner and he went to pick them up. He emptied his locker. Roger didn’t expect Rafa to say anything more. “Don’t you have a match soon?” he asked.

“No, Raonic withdrew. Elbow pain. I just found out.”

“Oh,” Rafa said. “Good luck, Roger.”

*

Rafa was just packing the last of his things, when María knocked on the door of his room.

“What?” he asked, a bit too harsh.

“I… Roger is here.”

This was the second time María had to let Roger into their suite and Rafa could sense it was getting on her nerves. Their relationship had spiralled into a dark place, barely talking, barely being able to be in the same room together without getting in a fight. None of them tried to find the reason of their problems and Rafa knew that if he didn’t do anything about it soon, it would all spiral out of control. But right in that moment, there was no strength. He was once more left defeated, disappointed and in pain.

“What does he want?” he sighed.

“He said he wants to apologize and talk to you. What does he have to apologize for?”

Rafa resisted the urge to tell her it was none of her business, instead he told her he didn’t know, which was also the truth.

“Okay, tell him to come here.”

Rafa closed and zipped the last suitcase, holding in a yelp of pain when lifting it off the bad caused a sharp pain in his abdomen. He quickly put it down beside his tennis bag and wanted to cry in frustration, but then Roger walked through the door and Rafa couldn’t do anything but once more pretend he was okay.

“Hey,” Roger said.

“How do you find my room?” he demanded instead of a hello. Roger gave him a careful smile which Rafa couldn’t stay exactly mad at.

“Mirka has her ways,” he replied carefully. Much to Rafa’s annoyance he closed the bedroom door when he walked in.

“Well, stop. Is not polite.”

Roger gave a sigh that stabbed at Rafa’s heart painfully and he wanted to fucking kill Roger for stirring up unknown feelings inside of his chest.

“I’m sorry. Look, I’ll leave you alone from now on, okay? I just wanted to come apologize for Rome, and for Wimbledon and also for what I said at the US open. It wasn’t right from me and that’s all I wanted to say.”

It would be much easier for Rafa to take rude words than those kind ones he couldn’t understand and wasn’t sure what to do with. He stayed speechless, his mind scrambling for response but finding none. Roger kept looking at him with his eyes vulnerable, big and sincere, the guilt shining in them and Rafa could never take other people’s pain.

“Is okay,” he finally said, his tongue tangling around the words. “Let’s just… let’s just put this behind us, okay?”

Roger smiled a little, shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to put you behind.”

And there he went again, confusing Rafa with his strange words and messing up everything Rafa stood for in his life.

“Roger,” he said, the word laced with confusion and pain. Roger didn’t say anything, but he took one of Rafa’s hands into his, sending a shock of something through him, making him almost pull it away. Almost. Roger stared at his hand like it was something beyond precious and Rafa didn’t know what to do with all the emotions cursing through him. Since he came up with nothing better, he leaned in and pressed his lips to Roger’s.

*

 

**NOVEMBER 2018**

Roger went to London. Just a week earlier or so, Rafa had called him, confirming that he wouldn’t be in London, and frightening him with the news of his ankle having to be operated because a piece of bone had broken off. It sounded frightening and Roger almost cried, but Rafa calmed him down, saying he had been living with this for more than a year and that it only bothered him occasionally, but that they wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be any future problems.

Despite himself Roger had asked if they could meet up. Their short but desperate kiss in Paris had left him hungry for more. He had only kissed Rafa twice, but he already felt addicted to the soft touch of Rafa’s lips. Rafa had laughed softly into the phone.

“Win for me, Roger, and we’ll see.”

They never asked each other about María, about Mirka or the kids. Since June when Roger had first cornered Rafa, it had become a taboo they never spoke about. The guilt would be too strong.

Roger spectacularly lost the first match against Nishikori. It was like the finals of Miami and Halle all over again. He simply became blocked. It scared him to no end. But he wasn’t out of the tournament. No. He still had the chance to get into the semi-final if he won both of the next two matches, against Thiem and Anderson. Once he got back to the hotel and finally fell on top of the bed, feeling completely exhausted, he noticed he surprisingly had a message from Rafa.

All of the Spaniard’s anger seemed to disappear after that kiss in Paris. Roger still couldn’t tell how Rafa was really feeling, but at least he wasn’t ignoring him anymore. He took the phone, feeling something like happiness spread through his body at the thought that Rafa was thinking of him.

**Hola, Roger, tough match. I will watch on Tuesday, good luck !**

Warmth spread through Roger’s heart and more than ever before this year he wished he and Rafa played more than three tournaments together this year. There was no chance for them to meet in a duel anymore and he couldn’t help but doubt how the next year would go. He knew Rafa would do amazing, but he was worried if he’ll be able to get far enough in any tournament to meet Rafa in the semis or even the final. God, he missed playing against him. He missed Rafa on the other side of the net, looking hot and fierce, sweaty shorts and shirt perfectly hugging his figure, a shy and kind man turning into a beast.

Roger missed the hug at the end of the tough match, no matter who won. Sometimes it was him, but Rafa won more frequently, his willpower so difficult to overcome and his sheer strength too much for Roger to follow. Rafa would be dripping sweat and when Roger put a hand on his back or tummy it would come off dripping with Rafa’s sweat. They would both be a little smelly, but Roger had always found the scent hot, the adrenaline still cursing through his veins. More often than not, he would have to tear himself away from the hug before it became too obvious how much he just didn’t want to let Rafa go.

**Thank you, Rafa, I’ll do my best**

He slept a little better that night and he woke up feeling better the next day. He cancelled his practice, he needed a day for his mind, he needed to relax and get the negative thoughts out of his head. He went for a walk into the centre of London with his family, they went to see the aquarium and the London eye. In the evening, after they had finished their dinner, Roger went to bed feeling slightly guilty because he hadn’t practiced, but he knew that in a day not one of his game aspects could be improved. For once he fell asleep without anxiety shaking his body awake.

On Tuesday he went to practice just before the doubles match started in the evening session. Since he didn’t know who else to ask, he asked Borna if he could practice with him. The young man happily said yes, and they practiced for an hour or so. When he returned to the locker room where he had decided to finish his preparation for the match, he checked his phone to see if Rafa had texted to him.

He had.

Roger tried to control his excitement as he unlocked his phone.

**Meet me in room 548 when you get back to hotel**

Roger’s heart stopped and then sped up. Even though his mind didn’t know what was happening, his body didn’t even need that much explanation. His first thought was of having Rafa again, even before he thought about why was Rafa in London, how he knew which hotel he was in and mostly, why had he decided this now? What changed?

Roger didn’t know, but he didn’t want to scare Rafa away, so his thumbs quickly typed out a response.

**Okay**

He turned off his phone and put it away. He didn’t need any distractions now. He couldn’t afford another loss if he wanted to stay in the tournament.

He prepared for the match against Thiem with his mind shut down. He willed his body to work with him, not against him. He tried to memorize which shots worked best against Thiem and braced himself for the frustration that would come without a doubt.

He stepped out on court feeling surprisingly powerful like nothing could ever stop him. And indeed, Dominic couldn’t. He defeated him 6-2, 6-3 and even though he knew there was no way anymore to get to the number 1, or even 2 anymore, he felt as if he has finally achieved something useful. He still had the chance to improve last year’s result here, when he lost in the semis. He wanted to. He wanted to win.

After they returned to the hotel it hit him that he had no excuse to tell his family while he went to Rafa. He thought long and hard, before he finally came up with something and carefully made up the plan.

“I have a really bad feeling about Dominic,” he told Mirka when he sat down on the couch beside her.

“Why?” She asked, uninterested. She was reading a book.

“He seemed really sad by the defeat,” he replied. “Besides, he’s out of the tournament now and he had surely hoped for a better result.”

Mirka finally looked at him. “Well, what do you wanna do about it?”

“I know where his room is, I’m just gonna go check how he’s coping.”

Mirka stared at him, her stare hard and calculating. “Okay,” she said finally, looking away. Roger exhaled lowly and stood up from the couch. He went into the bedroom and pulled on a hoodie, before he left the room, a weird feeling of anxiety and excitement already spreading through him. He knew this was a bed idea, but from the beginning he knew that this would be able to stop him.

He took the lift to get to the fifth floor and then counted the rooms until he stopped in front of 548. His heart was loudly beating in his chest and his body already seemed to expect something, he felt too hot in his simple clothes. He knocked.

There wasn’t anything but silence coming for a few minutes before he finally heard footsteps. A second later the door opened, and Roger held his breath.

Rafa stood there in a low pair of sweatpants, his tanned brown chest on display. Roger momentarily lost all ability to speak, too busy looking him up and down. He forgot how well Rafa looked without a shirt on.

“You come in?” Rafa asked, cocking his left eyebrow. Roger felt himself blush and followed Rafa inside. The TV in the room was still on, highlights from his match playing. “I watch,” Rafa said, picking up the remote and turning the TV off. “Great match.”

“Well, I wanted to hurry up here,” Roger answered, a little hesitant, but Rafa turned to him and flashed him a small smile with his eyes twinkling and Roger was relieved to find out he had said the right thing. Rafa turned the TV off, putting the remote down, before he made his way towards Roger. He cornered him against the wardrobe and Roger’s breath shuddered.

Rafa’s hand came up and gently touched Roger’s forehead. For some reason he expected a rough touch, he would deserve it after everything he had said and done to him in the past few months. But Rafa’s touch was gentle as his fingers stroked along Roger’s jawbone, chin and his lips. He smiled softly, but then something crossed his eyes, his smile fell off his lips and his hand dropped down.

“This… I not know what I’m doing,” he mumbled, looking away. He took a step away and looked as if he was going to turn away, but Roger didn’t want the to lose all the progress they had made. He grabbed Rafa’s hand and kept him in place.

“Me neither,” Roger said. Rafa looked back at him, and wow, Roger had never noticed how beautiful the shape and colour of Rafa’s eyes were. And when Roger finally got him to smile, the skin around them wrinkled, making it look like he was smiling with his eyes. “I just… I really miss playing with you.”

“Me too,” Rafa whispered.

“And I miss how we hung out in Prague. Those were probably the best three days of my life.”

Rafa gave his brightest smile. “Was fun, no?”

Roger laughed softly. “Yes, it was.” He suddenly didn’t know what to say, but he wanted to know what Rafa was thinking, if he had forgiven him, what drove him to leave everything and fly to London so suddenly.

Tense-filled silence fell upon them, Rafa’s hand still in Roger’s. They were looking at each other, with eyes occasionally looking down at the other’s lips. Rafa’s breathing picked up and Roger could see goose bumps on his bare skin. He himself was shivering with the need to lean in and kiss Rafa, but not knowing if that was something he had deserved.

In the end Rafa made that decision for him. His hand went from Roger’s back up to the Swiss’ face, his palm gently cupping Roger’s jaw, before he leaned in and kissed him. For a moment, Roger was completely frozen, before he realized what was happening and immediately got lost in the sensation of Rafa’s soft lips.

“Raf?” he said against Rafa’s lips. They parted, foreheads pressed together. “At US open, in the shower, did I hurt you?”

Rafa thought back to that day, how he waited for Roger to finish his practice and how much he liked the anticipation even though him and Roger were supposedly in a fight.

“I give you kiss afterwards, no?” he asked.

Roger sighed, rubbed his nose against Rafa’s. “That’s not an answer. I’ve been beating myself over this ever since. I can’t live with the fact I actually-“

Rafa cut him off with a kiss, not letting him pronounce what actually happened in the showers that day.

“I wanted it,” Rafa whispered. “Was strange, because I also wanted to kill you, but was… was probably best, you know, in my life.”

“I can hardly believe that,” Roger chuckled, his eyes a bit wet.

Then Rafa gave a laugh, a real one, his always overheated body pressing against Roger’s. “For sure. I never come so hard before.”

Roger groaned, partly in shame, but also because Rafa’s words lit something up in between them. Rafa kissed him again, more decisively this time, pressing him against the wardrobe with his full body-weight, keeping Roger trapped right where he wanted him.

They stumbled towards the bed, hands already roaming over each other’s bodies, desperate to feel one another, this time doing it right. Their legs hit the bed and they fell down on top of each other, Rafa beneath Roger.

Roger kissed along Rafa’s cheeks, then moving down to his neck and his collar bones, careful not to leave any marks. He bit gently into Rafa’s nipples, feeling them harden in his mouth, while Rafa threaded his hands through Roger’s hair and moaned.

“Roger, take this off,” he gasped, pulling on Roger’s shirt. Roger was happy to obey, taking off his shirt, quickly followed by other items of clothing, until they were both naked.

They were pressed together from lips to hips, moving against each other, both of them already hardening. They were desperate, and they couldn’t afford to lose time. They kissed fervently, Rafa’s tongue trying to explore every last corner of Roger’s mouth.

Roger couldn’t keep his hands off Rafa. He ran them all over his skin, his arms, his thighs, his sides, but restrained himself from reaching in between Rafa’s legs.

“Stuff is in my bag in the bathroom,” Rafa gasped against Roger’s lips and Roger tore himself away from Rafa’s warm body, basically running to the bathroom to be back as soon as possible. He brought a bottle of lube and a condom, pouncing back on Rafa and kissing him again, not able to resist it.

Rafa was telling him to hurry, his fingers tangled in Roger’s hair and pulling and what else could Roger do but obey. There was a silent agreement between them and Roger felt he didn’t need to ask for permission.

He coated his fingers and prepared Rafa quickly, but more gently than back at the US open. His fingers were tightly gripping Rafa’s thigh, keeping his legs apart while Rafa kept letting out small noises of encouragement, which were like music to Roger’s ears. Roger was leaving kisses all over Rafa’s face and neck while preparing him, whispering words he kind of hoped Rafa couldn’t understand.

After a minute of Roger thrusting his fingers inside, searching for Rafa’s sweet spot, he pulled his fingers out. He wasn’t able to wait any more, he took the condom and rolled it on, their lips finding each other’s again.

Rafa’s legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him close and the heat of Rafa’s inner thighs was unbearable beside Roger’s hips. He pushed inside slowly, Rafa letting out a low hiss. Roger buried a moan into Rafa’s mouth, kissing him again.

He bottomed out and stilled, waiting for both of them to get used to it, before he started moving slowly on Rafa’s demand, their fingers intertwining by Rafa’s shoulder. It only took a few seconds, before they both needed more, Rafa scratching at the skin of Roger’s back and asking him to go faster. Roger didn’t need further encouragement to pull his hips back and thrust in harder and faster, punching a beautiful moan from the man underneath him.

Sweat was coating Rafa’s skin, making it shine beautifully and Roger leaned down to lick it off his neck. Rafa was moving his hips, trying to meet Roger’s every thrust, his mouth falling open almost every time Roger hit just the right spot. His hand sneaked down, and Roger moaned encouragingly, watching as Rafa touched himself.

Rafa barely gave a moan of warning before he came, but Roger sensed it in the way his body tensed, throwing his head back and eyes falling closed. He kissed Rafa and the Spaniard moaned into his mouth, Roger swallowing it right up.

He fucked Rafa through his orgasm, groaning at the rhythmic spasms Rafa’s body gave around him and followed closely, burying his face into Rafa’s neck as he came, tightly gripping Rafa’s fingers.

When he was coherent again, he was lying on top of Rafa and the Spaniard was gently stroking his hair.

“Get off me?” came Rafa’s muffled voice from underneath him. Roger smiled fondly, stroked his hand over Rafa’s thigh one more time, before rolling off to lie on the bed beside him. Rafa turned his head to the side and smiled, dimples appearing in both of his cheeks. Roger looked down at where Rafa’s tummy was coated with come and reached to the bedside table to get a tissue the hotel had provided.

He wiped both off them before throwing it away, having wrapped the condom inside.

Rafa was suddenly looking at him very seriously. “You will win, right?” he asked.

“I feel like with you I could win anything,” Roger replied, all too honestly.

*

As it turned out, Roger hadn’t won. He had lost in the semi-finals against Sascha. But somehow it didn’t matter that much to him. He knew he gave his best, but he also wanted to hurry to Miami where Rafa was waiting for him.

After days of trying to convince him, Rafa had finally agreed that it would be okay to go on short holidays with him.

Roger decided to go with his whole family. When Mirka asked him how he had got to this idea, he somehow talked himself out of it, by saying Rafa and he needed to talk about playing together in Geneva at the Laver cup next year. When she said this could be done over the phone, Roger told him that if she didn’t want to go to holidays to Bahamas, she wouldn’t need to.

This shut her up and a day after his loss they sat on a plane and flew to Miami, where they would only spend two days, before flying to the Bahamas.

Roger got his first chance to be alone with Rafa on Sunday evening after they had had dinner together. Roger came into Rafa’s room, where he was, surprisingly, completely alone.

“Where’s María?” Roger gasped as Rafa pushed him against the door and kissed him hotly, his hands tightly gripping Roger’s collar and not letting him move anywhere.

“Home, she has wok,” Rafa replied quickly, before he kissed him again, and it quickly became clear to Roger that Rafa didn’t want to talk about that. He took the hint and gripped Rafa’s waist, pulling him close and kissed him until they were both completely breathless.

Rafa moved away suddenly, his eyes twinkling almost devilishly and without any warning, he dropped down to his knees, hands immediately coming up and unbuckling his waist.

“What you say to Mirka?” he asked, popping open the button and pulling down the zipper of Roger’s dress pants.

“We’re talking about Laver cup plans,” Roger gasped, but then there was nothing last to say, because Rafa pulled down his pants and took him in his mouth. Roger moaned, tangling his fingers into Rafa’s hair and pulling gently, his knees already becoming weak.

Unmistakeable noises of sucking filled the small room, Roger using his hand to gently guide Rafa up and down, but not forcing him. Rafa’s hands came to rest on his hips, thumbs digging into the skin just under Roger’s hipbones. Roger groaned, his head thumping back against the wall, but he couldn’t even care that there would be a bump the next day. What Rafa was doing was way too good.

One of Rafa’s hands came down and played with Roger’s balls, squeezing them and rolling them around in his palm and Roger was gone, his legs barely keeping him upright. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, tightening his grip on Rafa’s hair. His hips buckled as he came and Rafa gagged at the sudden intrusion and Roger wanted to apologize, but he saw stars from the pleasure and he could only stroke Rafa’s hair gently instead. 

After he came down from it, they were both panting, Rafa pressing his forehead against Roger’s thigh.

“Taste weird,” Rafa murmured, kissing Roger’s thigh and Roger couldn’t keep a breathy laugh in. He pulled Rafa back to his feet and pulled him in for a kiss, his cock twitching weakly at the taste of himself in Rafa’s mouth.

He unbuttoned Rafa’s jeans and slipped his hand inside Rafa’s boxers, tightly holding Rafa with an arm across his waist while he quickly brought him off with the other. Rafa moaned into his neck and groaned his name and Roger was almost ready to go again.

*

 

**DECEMBER 2018**

“So, you will really play with me?” Roger asked him. There was only a week left until the beginning of the next season and Rafa had invited Roger to come train to his academy. Roger gladly grabbed the chance to see Rafa again before the beginning of the Australian Open.

“I already say yes, Roger,” Rafa laughed from the other side of the couch.

“Great,” Roger laughed. “I can’t believe it.”

Rafa gave a soft laughed, looking at him with a cheeky look in his eyes. Roger was beyond happy Rafa had agreed to come to Geneva in September, because this year’s Laver cup without Rafa was not the same.

If he was told half a year ago that he and Rafa could be in the same room without arguing, he wouldn’t believe it. He was sure he had said too much. Even now, he wasn’t sure what he and Rafa were exactly. They both had a partner they couldn’t live without, but suddenly living without each other seemed close to impossible too.

They were watching a movie in Roger’s room at the academy. Even though Roger had asked if he could stay at Rafa’s place, they both knew this wouldn’t be a good idea. If María or Mirka found out there wouldn’t be a good way to explain it.

They had to be satisfied with occasional moments in the locker rooms and in showers and evenings spent in Roger’s room when Mary went out with her friends. Rafa still didn’t let himself feel guilty. He knew that once he started thinking about it, there would be no way out. He couldn’t just break up with her, she was one of the constants in his life and even though they fought a lot in the past three years, Rafa couldn’t imagine not having her there when he needed her the most. He knew how selfish that sounded, but he couldn’t imagine his and Roger’s relationship ever getting serious enough to consider breaking up with her.

He and Roger were connected by lust and something neither of them could quite place. It was stronger than attraction, but they couldn’t call it love. Perhaps not yet, perhaps not ever. Rafa couldn’t say yet.

Roger laughed about something that happened in the movie, and Rafa, completely mesmerized, crawled to Roger, climbing into his lap and kissing him fervently. Roger seemed to agree, gripping Rafa’s hips and holding him tightly against himself.

They spent most of their time like this, completely insatiable. There was never enough of the incredible feeling they felt when their bodies touched. It was indescribable, and perhaps it would never have happened, if they hadn’t got in that fight.

*

The 2019 season had almost started and Rafa was spending his last day at home with his family, before flying to Abu Dhabi just a day after Christmas. First thing in the morning when he sat down on the couch and started opening his presents together with the rest of the family, was his phone ringing. Rafa took it and smiled widely when he saw it was Roger.

He left his gift half unwrapped and walked out of the room to take the call.

“Hola,” he greeted, after picking up. He could immediately hear the sounds of children screaming all over each other and he smiled softly. He really, really wanted to have a kid.

“Hey, Rafa. My family and I just want to wish you a merry Christmas and a lot of good in the new year.”

Rafa’s smile spread even further. “Thank you. And to you too! From my family.” He quieted his voice. “When you come to Melbourne?”

“Right after the Hopman Cup. You?”

“When I am out of Brisbane. I can’t wait to see you,” he admitted.

“Me neither.” The sound of children’s yelling disappeared and Rafa knew Roger had gone to somewhere quiet himself. “But don’t drop out of Brisbane because of that. You should win, Raf.”

“I do my best,” Rafa said, unable to stop smiling.

“I hope so. See you soon, okay?”

“Sí. Can’t wait.”

“Me neither. I… I really miss you.”

“Me too.”

“Goodbye, Raf and merry Christmas.”

“You too.”

As they hung up, there was still something unspoken in between them. Perhaps something that they both felt but were too shy to speak it out loud. Something they were both afraid of because it would mess up everything they knew and everything they’d spent their whole lives building.

And yet at the same time they both knew that those three words wouldn’t be able to go unsaid forever.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos very much appreciated :))


End file.
